


Wolves Without Teeth

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Songs of Experience [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Tumblr Prompt, UST moving at a snail's pace toward RST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s not an expert on first kisses, but there’ve been a few. Mostly women, a couple of men, some that led to second kisses and nearly as many that were such disasters they ended practically before they started. He could list them, if he thought about it for a moment. Two hands might be enough to count them up. But his thought processes have pretty much short-circuited, and he’s got one hand full of empty whiskey cup and the other seems to have wound itself around Hannibal’s neck of its own accord, and so that list is never going to get made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves Without Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sirenja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/gifts).



> _I can see through you_  
>  _We are the same_  
>  _It's perfectly strange_  
>  _You run in my veins_  
>  _How can I keep you_  
>  _Inside my lungs_  
>  _I breathe what is yours_  
>  _You breathe what is mine_
> 
> _~”Wolves Without Teeth”, Of Monsters and Men_

Some nights they find a place to dock and they both sleep. On others they take turns, one sleeping and the other keeping watch as they keep moving through the night. The two of them are more akin to sharks than wolves out here on the sea, Will thinks as he leans on the rail and looks out at the dark, starry sky. But then sharks can be pack hunters, too.

Not that he's at all sure he'll be doing any hunting. He still needs to believe that there's a line he can draw and stay to one side of, between self-defense and wanton hunting. Even if the self-defense killing had been semi-premeditated. Even if it had been breathtaking in its ferocity and beauty, in a way that returns to him often in dreams that are far from nightmares.

The nights Will keeps watch are good for thinking through these questions. It's hard to remember sometimes with Hannibal's gaze on him that he has no intention of becoming Hannibal's pet killer. His friend and travel companion, yes. Quite possibly his lover. That's in the air, too, in looks and small touches and moments that hang shimmering in the air between them like heat haze but haven’t quite materialized yet into something more tangible.

He'll be all those things for Hannibal, but he needs to still be Will as well. The long hours alone on the deck, just Will and the stars and the sea-spray, are good for remembering just who that is, on the days when he feels like he might forget. He walks in his memories and thinks about what the future might hold, and the hours of his watch pass peacefully.

Still, he's not surprised when he hears movement inside a full hour and a half before his shift is supposed to be up. Hannibal's minimal need for sleep turns out to be less a necessity of leading a double life, and more a quirk of biochemistry. He's probably been awake for an hour already, lying still in the dark listening to Will's footsteps and imagining whatever it is that Hannibal imagines. Will is fairly certain that Dolarhyde’s death lives close to the surface of Hannibal's sleeping and waking dreams, too. It's one of the many places the boundaries between them are getting blurrier than they used to be.

He stretches some of the night's weariness from his muscles and waits for company.

When Hannibal makes his way up into the night air, t-shirt and pajama pants and bright eyes that brighten further at the sight of Will, he's carrying two cups. Abominably cheerful for having woken so recently, he hands over one of the cups and says, "Good morning, Will. Coffee to wake me up and whiskey to help you sleep."

Will doesn't actually need the assistance; he sleeps like a baby out here on the water most nights, and chooses not to think much about which of his current circumstances is responsible for that. But he takes a long swallow of the whiskey anyway, savoring its burn. "Thanks," he offers, before adding, "You could have just made it Irish coffee for us both."

"I could have, but it's too early for such things for me, and too late for you. Perhaps after dinner this evening."

"If there were ever a time to relax about scheduling, it's probably when you're living on a boat with nothing to do but sunbathe and cook."

"We'll return to shore eventually," Hannibal retorts evenly, eyes peering out into the pre-dawn darkness as if to try to see the joining place where the sea becomes the sky. "It would be useful if we hadn't completely lost all discipline by then."

It's the late hour, probably, that loosens Will's tongue enough for him to ask, "Do you ever wish we could just stay out here?" It can't be the whiskey; he hasn't had enough of it yet. Although it could be the nearness of the man who brought it to him.

Whatever it is, the words slip out unbidden and Hannibal glances sidelong at him before turning his gaze back to the unseen horizon. He takes a sip of his coffee and then says, "I don't imagine it's much of a life for a dog, or that you would be happy in the long term without one."

Will has another swallow of whiskey and feels it slide all the way down his throat while he considers his response.

"I'm better with them. Eventually, yeah, we’re going to need dogs. At least two.”

How strangely perfect, and perfectly strange, that “we” still sounds in this context. He wonders when or if he’ll get used to it.

And then because it’s late and he’s tired, because Hannibal brought him whiskey and thought about a hypothetical dog’s happiness without prompting and didn’t flinch when Will said _two_ , for several reasons but mostly just because he wants to, Will tosses back the rest of the whiskey and turns to face Hannibal squarely and says, “I’m going to bed now. Kiss me goodnight. Don’t overthink it, just --”

He doesn’t get to finish with “do it”; the words get lost somewhere in a press of mouths warmed by whiskey and coffee.

Will’s not an expert on first kisses, but there’ve been a few. Mostly women, a couple of men, some that led to second kisses and nearly as many that were such disasters they ended practically before they started. He could list them, if he thought about it for a moment. Two hands might be enough to count them up. But his thought processes have pretty much short-circuited, and he’s got one hand full of empty whiskey cup and the other seems to have wound itself around Hannibal’s neck of its own accord, and so that list is never going to get made.

Which is fine because this one’s rocketing right to the top of the hypothetical list so who cares about ranking the rest of the top five? Not Will Graham, apparently. Will cares more about the fact that someone’s heart is racing, or maybe there are two hearts racing together in such perfect synchronicity that they can’t be told apart. ‘

He cares that their lips part for just the tiniest bit of exploration - not enough to require reckoning with the stitches still in Will’s cheek, just small licks and nibbles at each other’s lips. Enough to taste the mingled flavors of each other’s mouths along with the coffee and the whiskey, and to be a promise of more on another day. Enough to learn with pleasure if not surprise that this is yet another way they fit together beautifully, not so much mirroring each other’s movements as anticipating them before they’re even made.

He cares about feeding Hannibal his breath, and taking Hannibal’s from him, as if they could sustain themselves entirely from each other’s lungs and not have to stop to do anything so mundane as breathing. It seems entirely unfair that breathing should be necessary right now.

He’s a little dazed when the kiss breaks, enough that he hears Hannibal say something but can’t quite tell what it is at first. A moment later the static in his mind clears enough that he understands what Hannibal said: “Good night, Will.”

Because….because… _get it together, Graham_. Because a kiss was all he asked for. Because he’s going to bed now, and leaving Hannibal to take the watch. Because there are some very good reasons to take this slowly, starting with “half-healed gunshot wound” and running right through “some very important conversations that still need to be had about what exactly is going on here.”

Right. None of that’s changed. He still has to go to bed now. Which means he has to let go of Hannibal and take a step backward and try not to look wrecked by a few (very good) kisses.

Hannibal looks and sounds almost entirely composed, other than reddened lips and a mussed shirt where Will pressed up against him. But Will knows perfectly well it’s a lie; he _sees_ Hannibal now, and the facade doesn’t fool him anymore. He has the consolation of knowing that he’s leaving Hannibal on deck approximately as dazed and giddy as Will himself feels.

He smiles what must be an incredibly foolish grin, not caring at all for the moment that it pulls at the stitches in his cheek until they twinge in complaint, and says, “Goodnight. Or good morning. Whatever.”

It’s not the smoothest exit line in the world but then Hannibal ought to know by now that Will’s not the smoothest guy. And if Will stays for five more seconds he’s not going to leave at all. So he goes, ducking into the cabin and leaving Hannibal alone to start his own watch. He rather suspects it’s going to be less peaceful than Will’s was, and he’s not even slightly sorry.

He strips and climbs into bed, where he savors the last traces of Hannibal’s kiss on his lips until unconsciousness comes for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I am back from vacation, lovelies! I really wanted to get you a new chapter of Blur tonight, but the dialogue on the next chapter is tricky and turned out to be not good to write in an airport waiting lounge. This piece of ridiculous fluff, however, based on a song prompt from Sirenja, flowed just fine even with airport interruptions. So accept it as a token of love from the [Damn Slippy Planet Enterprises Prompt Mines](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com), which are now up and running again.


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